Taking Stock

I am of extraterrestrial stock.

My parents were human. I'm human, but also alien as near as I can figure it. I've written about it here from time to time, but at no point have I actually said it. That stops today.

I've written about the clown in the barn and how it started as a being who visited me and drew it on the wall in grease pencil. That's how I remember it, and I have continuous conscious recollection of it. That said, it was for my eyes only as the reminder was for me alone. 

She used to visit me often and during those times I was no child. A full- grown adult consciousness took over as we spoke.

We talked of what I am to do here in this life. I don't know what that is, but I do know if I am not open about who and what I am, the heritage I share, then I may never know it.

Are you wondering what my parents would think of this?

My mom would be cool about it as she had some moderate psychic ability and read all the Edgar Cayce materials she could get her hands on. Past lives were her interest.

My dad always wanted to be abducted by aliens and taken for a ride. He was clear he wanted them to bring him back, but a quick trip around the cosmos was on his list.

I asked him once, "Aren't you scared?"

He replied, "What's to be scared of?"

Back to me. I am sure that full-grown adult consciousness is still in here somewhere. I wish it would come back out. I want to know what it knows. It is possible it is simply adult me that through some process of time and space and reality was available to me there.

I have no idea what is going to happen next. For now, it is important to get the matter out on the public record. I am of alien heritage and I look forward to what is next.

Comfort, Then The Fear

Not long ago I wrote about the clown in the barn. Shortly afterward I realized I'd forgotten something important.

The fear didn't set in right away. 

You see, until I was five years old I'd go to the barn every chance I got to gaze at the drawing on the wall. I'd forgotten this part until after the blog post was published.

I suppose it was a clown then, too, but I didn't fear it. The grease pencil figure  on the boards was comforting.

For those moments when I stared at it I was with the visitor again.

I remembered.

What did I remember?

The feelings of warmth and comfort, love and belonging.

But the most important and compelling thing I remembered was who I was.

I am not sure what that means.

I still remembered the thing that the clown drawing was supposed to help me recall.

In those days I had yet to forget it. I thought I never would.

I also never used to avoid the unused chop bin in the barn.

In fact I liked to go in the room and often did so while dad did chores.

But one late winter afternoon that all changed. I went in the room as I commonly did. I asked dad to close and lock the door which he did.

(Side note: the lock was a wooden handle that one simply twisted leaving one end in front of the door  and the other by the wall.)

The room was bare. The light stayed off. There was no possible way for me to get into any trouble.

I was there only seconds.

The clown from the wall jumped me from behind. One arm went around my neck, the other went around my waist.

I screamed.

Dad let me out.

Years ago mom, dad, my sister and I went back to the farm to look.  I took photos of the wall. I took photos of the room.

Of course there's nothing.

I have no idea what actually happened

My dad was a few steps away about to do the chores. I think my sister was in the barn. In my mind I see someone about her size, wearing red.

It was after this incident the fear kicked in.

I never went back in to gaze at the drawing on the wall. All comfort from it was gone.

I forgot who really put it there. I forgot what I said I'd remember.

I suspect that was the point of the chop bin incident.

I had to forget all of that and simply be a human child. Visitations would cloud that life.

The cord had to be cut.

It hurts, but I get it.

I continue to look into this chiefly through self-hypnosis.  Yesterday morning I tried to take a closer look at it. I had a  mental image of a white door with a round handle closing. I know there's something on the other side I need to see.

But I guess that's for another day.

A Strange Encounter, A Wanting Memory

One of my earliest memories takes place in our barn. It was built when I was about two and I do recall one scene of it being built. It was a great place, 100 feet long north to south with the north end the closest to the house, 26 feet high at its peak with a huge hayloft.
But this memory takes place when I was three.
I was in the barn one afternoon. I went there often whether anyone else was there or not because it was a great place.
I am standing by the north end near a door to a room dad had intended to use for a chop bin. It had a window that was a simple opening like a door. It remained closed.
The boards on the barn wall are bare though in my mind I see whitewash. I think there was some partial paint, but I don't know.

What I do know is I was not alone.

Standing in front of me is a tall being. I get the feeling of female, but I honestly cannot say. She has high cheekbones, pale skin, and is wearing a white robe with wide sleeves. Out the sleeve end is a thin arm ending in slender, long fingers.
Her pale skin, and in my memory the white robe she wears, glows white gold.
She reaches past me, above my head. In her hand she holds a thick grease pencil, such as we used to mark the pigs that were ready for market.
She is drawing on the boards by the door to the never-used room.
 I am agitated. I do not want this.
The memory ends with me saying, "You don't have to do that. I'll remember."
I have the feeling I used to see this being often.
I have not seen her since that day and neither have I ever forgotten that scene.
And neither have I forgotten what she drew on the barn wall. I used to see it when I went in the barn. It scared me.

She drew a clown.

I was terrified to walk by it as I knew it would jump out and get me.
If I went in the barn with dad I made sure he was between the clown and me.
If I went in alone and dad was in the barn I edged as close as possible to the opposite side. I kept my  eyes on the clown.
If there was no one in the barn and I wanted to go up to the hayloft to sit in the sun, as I often did, I walked around outside to the south end of the barn where the stairs were. I would not go past that clown by myself.

He, I get the feeling of male from it, did not always appear.
I recall one day walking in the barn, seeing him, and wondering "Why doesn't daddy paint over that clown?"
I made up my mind to ask him to do it. I walked perhaps 30 feet to where dad was cleaning out a pig pen and forgot.
I'd remember from time to time, but never in time to ask him to do it.
I have photos of where I think the clown ought to be.
There is only bare board.

I told the family once about it and it was suggested it was a dream.
No.
It happened.
It is real.
I have never forgotten the being who used to visit me when I was very young. One day she told me she could not come to me anymore. She left the clown for me to remember.
I wish I remembered what it meant.
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I may have written about this before. If so, I apologize for the repeat.

The Clown In The Barn

I used to see a life-sized clown in the barn right near the main door. It was drawn on the bare wood wall in the same dark blue grease pencil we used for marking livestock.

It was going to get me. I knew it would. If I took my eyes off it as I walked by it would jump off the wall and grab me.

I only used the main entrance if someone was already in the barn or walking in with me. If alone, I walked to the south end of the barn and went in that way.
When someone was with me I made sure he or she was between the wall and me. The clown would get him or her first and I’d get away.

I didn’t see it every time I entered the barn because it wasn’t really there.

I’ve never forgotten the day it was drawn. I was three years old and standing a few feet inside the barn near the north door.
A tall thin being, luminous and white, was with me. I remember she had fine features and high cheekbones. It seemed like she was robed because I see in my memory a long, slender hand reaching out from a wide, hanging sleeve.

She was drawing the clown and I did not want it. I was anxious.
“You don’t have to do that,” I told her. “I’ll remember.”

I know now that she or those like her came to see me often until that day. It was wonderful. I know I felt the best when they were with me.
But this was to be the last time. She explained to me they weren’t coming anymore. I know she told me why, but I don’t recall the reason. I guess it was so I could get on with being a kid without any disruptions.
The clown was to be a reminder. I’ve no idea of what.

The terror kicked in two years later. I was playing in the barn late one dark December afternoon and insisted to my dad that I be put in the room we were going to use to store chop. It had a door with a twist-style lock for holding the door closed and a window that was sealed off. The clown wall was just outside the door.

I’d played in the room before and really liked it there so he let me go in this time. I told him to lock the door. Next thing I knew I was screaming to be let out.

As far as I know that clown got in the room with me and grabbed me from the back.
No one else was there. Dad and my sister were a good 50 feet away.

From that day I’ve had a minor, constant pain in the lower right hand side of my abdomen. Once or twice a year it kicks up enough that it’s hard for me to move. I’ve had it checked many times. I nearly had my appendix out twice because of it.

The farm is long since sold. My parents and sister and I took a Christmas Day trip out to it and on the way I told them I used to see this clown. They didn’t say much. My sister said it was all a bizarre dream.

We asked politely and were allowed to check out the barn. I grabbed my camera and took photos of the wall and the little room that has never been used for anything and the other drawings we did with grease pencils when we played in the barn.

They’re there. Grease pencil does not wear off.

The clown drawing was nowhere to be found.

It’s never been far from my mind, but lately I’m thinking more about it. I want those beings to come back.

I miss them and I love them and I want to remember.